Unfed (6 page)

He gives me a big smile. “Here’s hoping.” He slides an arm into the jacket and retrieves a helmet with gloves nesting inside it. “Nice.”

“What, you’re going to just run through them?” Alice says. “You’ll completely die.”

“Very foolhardy,” Pete shakes his head. “Besides, these messages — as valuable as they might be — aren’t our ticket out of here. We still have to find an exit.”

“Yeah, Pete,” Alice says. “About that …”

Russ taps the smart glass on the wall, revealing only a couple of zoms. “They’ve thinned out at the door now, I can get out, no problem.” He pulls
on the helmet and starts with the gloves. “Besides, it could be a practice run for our great escape. Maybe I can frighten enough of them off so they’ll clear a way for us to get out of that door into the courtyard? The phone needs time to charge up before we can even start deciphering the code. So I go now, and that gives us time to hole up here before we make our exit.”

“But the zoms!” Alice cries.

“They’re only small. And I’m big.” He gives her a winning smile, his caramel eyes twinkle, and I see her melt a little. He turns to Pete and claps him on the shoulder. “Where exactly is this charger?”

Pete gulps, then remembers he’s Grand Leader. He straightens his goggles. “It was plugged in. There’s a socket on the wall on the right-hand side of the counter.” He shuts his eyes for a minute, as if picturing it. “But if it’s not there now, search the drawers.”

Not such a simple dash and grab, then. More of a search and rescue. Russ is going to need more time to get this done.

“Piece of cake,” Russ says, not a trace of snark in his voice, and pulls down a reflective visor over his head. He looks like the love child of Buzz Lightyear and Iron Man. He unbolts the door and then grabs the handle. “Wish me luck.”

“Wait!” I cry.

“It’s OK, I won’t let any in,” he says.

“No, it’s not that.” I dart over toward the pegs. “I’m coming with you.” I pick up a second jacket; Martha was well prepared. Hot diggity dang, it’s heavy. I throw it on over my fleece; more padding. “You can’t go out there by yourself, you’ll get mobbed.” The jacket is huge on me. What’s good is that it covers my ass a little better than what I was wearing before. But I still have bare legs, and there’s no second helmet or pair of gloves.

“You can’t do this,” Russ starts.

“Of course I can,” I argue. “One of us provides a distraction, the other goes for the charger. I’m fast.”
Well, I used to be
… I shake off the thought. “I’ll keep ’em busy while you get to the desk.”
What the hell am I doing?

“If you’re going, you should go now.” Pete is fiddling with the computer. “Big ones, maybe heading this way.”

“At least take these.” Russ begins to pull off the helmet and gloves.

I shake my head. “Won’t be able to see with that on my head anyway.” I look at Alice. “I could use some legwear, though.”

“What?” She’s shaken. “So now you want my velour? Naff off. You wouldn’t fit into them anyway.”

“Come on, Alice. Gimme,” I tell her. I have no other options; even my skinny behind would be hard-pushed to squeeze into Pete’s tiny polyester slacks.

“Oh my god, this is too gross for words. DO NOT get zombie on them.” She begins pulling them down. “Or your own sweat. You!” she shouts at Pete. “Turn around! I refuse to strip while you’re perving and getting your jollies off.”

Pete splutters and objects, red-faced, but turns around anyway. Curiously Alice is not bothered by the prospect of Russ seeing her in her skimpies. She chucks the peach fluffy legs at me, and I pull them on. Hmm. Wouldn’t have been my choice, but I’m not sure that Alice has any biker leathers I could borrow.

“Let’s do this.” I’m all Captain America now. What I lack in actual armor, I make up for in spirit. I grab my towel rail, Russ picks up the fire extinguisher, and the door is opened and closed before I have time to think what a stupid idea this is.

The flashing amber-and-red lights have stopped. Maybe the Undead don’t like to disco. The Lil’ Zombinos have given up on crowding the door, but to our left they’re clumping up beside the nurses’ station, probably because it smells of warm human a little more than these scrubbed-down corridors.

“Let’s draw them down this end!” I say and point to the right beyond the courtyard entrance, where the corridor takes a sharp turn. “Then I’ll keep ’em occupied and you run up the wing for the try.”

“Don’t you mean for the touchdown?”

“Yeah, you’re right. We’re way too armored for rugby.” I grasp my towel rail and set my jaw, and together we scoot down the end of the corridor. I’ve already spotted where I’m going; just before the corridor turns, a pair of double doors is open, with a gurney beside them. I’m becoming an expert at this — with a leap and a bound I reckon I can get up on top of one of the doors and balance there for the duration of Russ’s charger retrieval. There are a couple of large pipes suspended from the ceiling; they’ll give me something to hang on to.

I never used to think like this, I never used to look for the emergency exits, the free-running routes, the easy weapon, or the barricade. But I’ll
never be able to stop now. Not even when I get old and crusty and all this is just a bunch of bedtime stories I frighten my grandchildren with.

That’s always assuming I get to grow up.

“Now what?” Russ shouts at me from under his RoboCop visor. We’re at the doors. The corridor continues a little farther beyond here, then takes the ninety-degree left. I run to look down the dogleg and am glad to see it’s clear. For now. Meanwhile, back at the nurses’ station, the mob has turned around to see what all the commotion is, and is heading our way.

“They’re coming, just wait.” I clamber up onto the gurney. “They’ll thin out as they start moving. As they get closer you can make your run.”

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“Pete told you the tales.” I grit my teeth. “Once or twice.” I shove the towel rail down my jacket, and use a dispenser for antibacterial hand cleaner as a foothold to hoist myself up and plant my butt on top of the door. I wobble there, not exactly limber in this fleece-jacket combo, but I cling on to the pipes on the ceiling for balance.

The mini-monsters are homing in on us now, smacking their little chops, excited as zoms can ever get, the fish-sick smell emanating from their foul breathy moans.

“There!” I point up to the nurses’ station. It’s practically deserted. Just what the doctor ordered. “Do it!”

Russ lets out a roar and pushes the gurney, using it as both a weapon and a shield, legs powering it from behind and straight through the little zoms. It’s moving fast — he throws himself down onto it like it’s a greased lightning sled and barrels along the corridor, knocking bodies left and right. I cheer him on, distracting some of the zombinos to my perch.

Russ’s gurney hits the nurses’ station with a
KerPlunk
, and he goes flying headfirst over the desk. Lucky he didn’t give me that helmet after all. It’s kind of funny, and it does more to endear him to me than all the brave stuff. You can’t knock a piece of comedy gold. My laughter makes the door shake, and I grip tighter to the pipes above to keep from falling.

“I’m OK!” He stands up and shouts at me, his helmet wonky. This is even funnier, but I don’t think it will do his morale much good to see me in hysterics, and I can’t give him the big thumbs-up without falling, so I don’t do anything. He’s not looking, anyway — immediately he’s searching for the charger, ducking down behind the desk, using every second like it’s a matter of life or death. Which, of course, it is.

Below me, the mob is pressing at the door, reaching their little arms up to try and snatch a foot. I keep my legs out in front of me; it’s quite an ab workout, and the edge of the door bites into my rear end. But they can’t reach me, and they’re not going to shake me loose. There are six or seven of them now, jostling for space, bumping each other against the wall, against the antibac holder thingy, against a big button that says
OPEN/CLOSE
on it …
Shit!

My door starts to move from under me. The little rascals have had a lucky accident and hit the button. The door is closing. I can’t go with it, so I have to jump or hang. Jumping down among the dead men is not an option, so I hang, my legs dangling, arms burning, grip slippy on the dusty pipes. Heat moves over me, a rush of adrenaline and danger-sweats. I feel my stomach muscles crying out as I try to raise my feet in front of me and hook them over the pipes, but the stupid towel rail shoved down my jacket keeps me from bending my body. Dammit! I
hang, legs kicking, and the kiddies reaching up to bash at me like I’m the fattest piñata at the zombie birthday party.

“Russ!” It’s hard to scream when you’re dangling, but I manage it. “Have you got it?” He’s still out of sight, somewhere behind the desk.

“Not yet!” A muffled cry comes back at me.

“Wanna speed it up for me?” My shoulders feel like they’re dislocating. I shuffle a nervous hand forward, knees bent, feet only just out of reach. Can I monkey-bar hand over hand along these pipes? At least to get clear of the zoms below? Sweat dribbles down into my eyes. I have no choice, my grip can only hold out for so long. I’ve got to go for it. Right hand, left hand, right hand. My legs swing, giving me a rhythm. I’m doing it! Left hand, right hand, left hand … the towel rail slipping down my front every time I swing. A girl with lips bitten away in a permanent smile looks up at me and makes a lucky grab. I kick my foot free, but she’s on me again.

“Russ!” I up the urgency a notch or three. “I can’t hold out!”

“I’ve got it!” he shouts and pops his helmeted head above the parapet. “But it’s tangled in some other cables —”

“Untangle quickly!”
I don’t need an explanation, just get on with it!
But I know that no matter how fast he works, I’ve reached the end of my endurance. The mob is all around. No place to jump free or run clear. I try one last, desperate effort to somehow wedge my feet in the pipes and take some of the weight, but I know as I’m doing it that it’s useless. The towel rail finally clatters to the ground, and I’m all set to follow it. My grip gives out on me, and I fall to the floor below with a yelp.

I land on one on them, and it kind of splats and crunches below me — I try to roll free of the crowd but hit a pair of legs. Instantly I curl into a ball, shrinking into my flak jacket like a turtle. Little claws scratch at my back, the bulletproof stuff in the jacket doing its thing and keeping me
safe. But I have to move before they manage to find a fleshy bit or roll me over like a hedgehog. With a shriek I tumble over and over, with as much speed and force as possible, through the gaps in the legs around me until I bash up against the glass of the door leading to the courtyard, and I’ve found my answer. There’s a bar halfway up the door saying
PUSH TO OPEN
, and I raise both hands to smack it and willingly obey. The door clunks and gives way. I roll out into the courtyard, twist round, and slam it shut behind me with both feet.

I lie there panting, my boots against the glass and my back on the concrete. I raise my head to look at my pursuers. They’re there on the other side of the glass, pressing up against it and clearly quite flummoxed as to why they can’t reach me. I laugh out loud.

“Gotcha!”

The door shudders as one zombie raises its hands and smacks the bar on the door. Others join in. Dammit! They’re
copying
what I did. They’re going to open it exactly the same way. I brace my legs against the bottom of the glass, unable to move.

Anywhere to run to? I screw round from my prone position, my head wrenching my neck in an effort to see behind me.
Gah, it’s hot in here
.
Wait . .
. I spot a ladder, bolted to the wall in the far corner. I follow it up the wall with my eyes. Presumably there’s some kind of hatch in the greenhouse roof, to the outside. It’s hard to tell from here. But they wouldn’t have a ladder leading to nowhere.

Thud
.

The door wobbles again, and my knees are jarred. Where is Russ? He’s not going to leave me here, is he? The thought is genuinely worrying. He seems like a straight-up kinda guy, and I think he sorta likes me, but you never can tell.

The faces at the window turn away from me, and then there’s a spray of white goo that spatters across the glass and the zombie mob part. At first I think the white stuff is brains, that Russ has found a pump-action shotgun and is going crazy. But even pus-marinated zom brains are more of a pink-thru-red kinda color. This is something different. Russ is at the door — visor up, battle-drunk face — but his weapon is the fire extinguisher, and the white stuff, foam.

I let my knees relax and roll out of the way just as he bursts through the door.

“Come on!”

I leap to my feet, just as Russ uses the extinguisher’s end to ram a blindly stumbling zom. They all have foam all over their faces, they can’t see, and it’s cramping their style.

“You got the charger?”

“Yep.” He pats a pocket. “Quickly!” He beckons me, and I’m about to follow him, but the lure of that ladder and the mob’s incapacitation is too good to ignore.

“The ladder.” I point. “Might be our way out! Let’s get the others and make a break for it while we can.”

He shakes his head first, then I see his face change as he looks down the corridor. “The adults. They’ve found us. We’ll try it.”

We run back into the corridor, past the feeble, blinded children. Russ uses the gurney to clear our path, and I miraculously trip over the bloody towel rail and scoop it up for future use. As we reach the control room, the door is already open and Pete is standing there. They must have been watching the whole thing on the screen, but I’m still impressed he got past Alice’s inevitable objections to open up and let us in.

“We can get out into the courtyard,” shouts Russ. “There’s a ladder to the roof.”

“I want my sweatpants.” Alice is perched on the desk, her T-shirt poking below her hoodie and stretched out of all proportion to cover her modesty.

“Jeez, Alice, there’s no time!” I shout.

“Not moving until you give them to me!” she cries and thumps the desk with both fists.

“Do it!” Pete shouts at me.

“Are you both frickin’ crazy?” But I’m already struggling out of them, because I already know the answer to my question. The bottoms catch on my boots, and I am hopping around trying to pull the damn peach fluffies off. It’s OK, though, because at this rate the zombies will probably kill themselves laughing at this performance. “Thanks for the loan, lady.” Finally I win the battle and I fling them at Alice, who dons them in record time.

“Hitch a ride!” Russ is patting the gurney, and we load ourselves onto it — me on the front, then Pete and Alice, squealing. Russ is behind, pushing us off, running until we’ve built up enough speed. And then he leaps on, too, and we’re flying, screeching, the wind whipping over my bald head, a little part of me enjoying it as the gurney flies down the corridor again. As we come level with the door to the courtyard, Russ jumps down and acts as a human brake, the front of the gurney swinging from left to right as we skid to a stop.

“Aargh!” Alice flies off the side and splays out onto the floor at the feet of a boy Undead, who makes a move on her. As tempted as I am to leave her, I raise a leg and boot the zom in the head. As I reach down to give her a hand, she screws up her face in distaste.

“Do me a favor? Cut out the high kicks until you’ve found some pants.”

I pull her to her feet, unnecessarily roughly. “You’d like me to leave you to be eaten?”

There’s a furious roar, but it’s not Alice. Undead Seniors have arrived. We’ve been playing tag with the kids long enough. The big guys are here, and it’s time to go.

We run to the door just as Russ opens it and bust out into the courtyard. The door is slammed shut and Russ wedges the fire extinguisher against it. I guess it’s not the easiest weapon to tote around, especially when you’re scaling buildings. The hotness hits me again as I scan around just to make sure no little monsters have slipped out while we were otherwise occupied — or whether there are any other survivors — but we’re alone. For now.

“God! God! God!” screams Alice. “Get it off me!”

I turn expecting to see a zom clinging to her leg. She has a large spotted butterfly sitting on her outstretched hand, fluttering its wings prettily. Alice flaps her hand back at it, not quite daring to touch.

“Die!” Russ splats it with his fist.
Wow
. Alice gives a yell, and the poor butterfly gives a flutter and falls to the ground, broken. Russ’s eyes blaze. I guess he really hates insects.

“The ladder!” Pete cries, pointing to the corner.

“It’s so high,” Alice gasps.

“It’s leading to the roof, what did you expect?” I mutter.

Russ grabs her hand and squeezes it. “We can make it, Alice.”

She doesn’t look so sure, but I’m guessing the combo of imminent zoms and a leg up from Russ will be enough for her to give it a shot.